The dust stung Gunther's eyes each time the wind blew, his eyes proving ever the target today. Each gust proved an obstacle costing precious time, time he desperately needed. He traveled this road for at least two days, it might have been twenty years for all the man knew. Time had gone flat and grey, meaningless to Gunther now. He could see the sun rise and fall but could not speak to how many passes through the sky it made.

  The road was small and dusty, if it could even be called a road. Dry and dirty with sparse wooded areas on either side providing little in the way of shelter from the heat of the day. The heat wasn't a bother to Gunther anymore, he felt cool no matter the temperature. Then, atop the next hill, he saw it. It may as well have been Joveah himself with how the relief and instant comfort filled his belly as soon as he saw the silhouette of the tiny inn perched atop a small hill not a quarter of a mile from him. Surely, he could make that short walk.

  "March..." He groaned.

  Feeling the end of his trek within his grasp, Gunther steeled his legs and before he knew it his right foot had set a slow but steady pace for the left to follow. The left landed with a wet thud instead of a step. Gunther looked down and was reminded of his severed left foot, a gift from his last, brutal battle. The spaces where an ankle and foot should have been were replaced by a mass of mangled bone and sinew. The mess dragged the dusty road with each laborious step. Strangely, the man couldn't feel the pain that should have enveloped him. The white-hot pain of a severed limb simply did not exist. His face was also bloody and beaten with his left eye swollen shut. Still, pain was not present.

  Gunther dragged his nub up the hill, the stump felt heavier with each step as it gathered more and more dirt and debris. Carrying the weight of his cold, meat anchor, he made it about halfway up the hill to the small inn when his knees buckled under sheer exhaustion. He tumbled to the ground, bashing his shoulder upon a stone that had found its way into the road. Still, no pain. After lying for what seemed to be a much longer moment than it actually was, he rolled to his stomach and pressed himself upward onto his knees.

  "This damn road!" he cried as he flung a stone into the distance.

  He worked his way back onto his foot and stump and continued the arduous task of walking, if you could call it that. Finding strength he thought long gone, he crested the hill, the sweet aroma of fresh bread greeted his senses as he finally collapsed at the beginning of a stone path. At the other end of the path stood a modest wooden door upon which a wooden sign held the carving of a mass of thorns.

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  "The Tipsy Tangle." He choked out the words through ragged breaths.

  Gunther rolled to his back and laughed a long, hearty laugh, a bout of laughter that was cut short by a fit of raspy coughs. Yet, no blood stained the pathway from the coughs.

  The door at the end of the walkway flung open at the sound of his choking coughs. A portly old innkeeper filled the doorframe, almost from side to side.

  "The wind on the shutters, no doubt." The man stroked his beard with one hand and rested the other on his large belly. "Could swear I heard a cough."

  "It was I sir." Gunther muttered. "Here, sir!" Again with what gusto he could muster. Yet the innkeep stood, not noticing the bloodied heap on the stone path. "I'm here, sir. I'm down here, you old fool!" His voice trailed off carrying with it what little hope he had remaining.

  "Damn wind." The innkeeper spun and shut the door behind.

  "Dammit..." Gunther pounded his fist as he rolled to his stomach and began gripping edge of the stone pavers. One by one he pulled his own mangled humanity toward the threshold. At first his grip was sure, stable. However, as he pulled the stones the hard, stony feeling began to change. The path became as ice, just as cold and as impossible to grip. Then he saw it: the pavers hadn't changed, his fingers were passing through them.

  "No, not now." He pleaded as he tried and tried, to no avail. He lost even the slightest sensation of stone on skin. Voices from within could be heard while none could hear his. Gunther could hear footsteps coming closer from the inside of the inn. The door opened again, only this time it wasn't the portly old innkeeper.

  "March!" Gunther cried as he looked up at his longtime friend and object of his mission. "March! Thank Divines..." He managed to choke the words out. "I've found you..." Another coughing fit.

  March didn't move at the racket. He only stood, gazing into the distance. His pale golden yellow eyes keen on the horizon held a burning hatred. He turned his hatred to the South, the fire inside intensified. Gunther turned his head, following March's gaze.

  "N-n-no." Gunther stammered as March loosed his feet into a into a stoic, purposeful stride. "Sir! You mustn't go!" Gunther cried as he grasped at March's tunic as he passed. His fingers, however, only found twilight as they passed through the cloth.

  March stopped mid step and turned in Gunther's direction. Relief washed over Gunther at the sight of his friend stopping. March did turn in Gunther's direction but he didn't seem to notice him. Gunther then realized; March wasn't looking at him but through him. Gunther raised his hand toward March but the distance between them was too great to reach. It was then Gunther saw March through his outstretched hand. He turned and twisted the hand, watching as the transparency continued down the length of his arm. He watched as the hand disappeared, followed by his forearm.

  Gunther watched as his body continued evaporating before his eyes. Not knowing what to do, he scrambled toward March as best he could but only fell to the ground. He raised his face in March's direction in time to see him turn and continue his stride to the southern reaches of Altheria. This vision of retribution would be the last vision Gunther saw as, finally, the last parts of his body faded from the world and into oblivion.